The drowsy valley lay in mid-day sun,
Its winding road was dusty in the heat;
The grassy slopes were innocent of sheep;
A narrow brook among the rocks did run;
A lark, invisible, sang high and sweet;
The mountain tops were lost in haze and sleep.
Snaefell lay back as if his work was done,
The tourists looked like insects at his feet
As they on exploration there did creep.
Sudden, with haste, they turned, the place to shun
Swiftly they left the site of ruined works.
Dread was a presence there, and with it, death.
In pit entombed here miners lost their breath,
And tragedy’s dank air around it lurks.
Weekly Times 24.6.60